


The Pulling of My Chest

by TiredMofo



Category: South Park
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 02:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17931236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredMofo/pseuds/TiredMofo
Summary: Stan and Craig have been hooking up not too long ago after some sexual tension passed between them. All was well, but the moment Stan starts to feel a little bit more than what he'd like to... well fuck.





	The Pulling of My Chest

**Author's Note:**

> First fic to ever be posted by yours truly. Very much inspired by the song Sex, Money, Feelings, Die. I don't know how exactly the story will play out but it'll be a helluva journey to write out-- considering it's angsty. Hope ya'll enjoy<3

Warmth from the inside of his car quickly subdues the moment he cracks his door open in the slightest. The cold wind rushes to his face—the only part of him that wasn't covered in fabric—hitting him like a thousand needles piercing though his skin that had been hugged by heat that swam through the car's A/C vents not too long ago. 

Gathering his cellphone, backpack, and keys, and pushing the lock button on his door, he steps out from his vehicle, greeted by the familiar crunch of snow underneath his shoes. He grimaces at it. Mumbles at his father's words of " _I'll shovel it later"_ while shutting the car door. He stops his bickering to take in a big breath of cold fall air and watches the white puff trail off from his mouth until it disintegrates in the open. 

"Oh good, you're back," he hears his mother say as he opens the front door of his house. "I left dinner on the stove if you'd like, Stan." 

He smiles and nods at his mother who is sitting on the couch watching her favorite soap opera beside his father, "thanks mom." 

"Always out and about," his father shakes his head. "Never spends time with your family, you're just like Shelly." 

"He's growing up, Randy. Let him have his independence." His mother shoots back. 

He doesn't feel like involving himself yet again with his parent's emotional turmoil over their children becoming young adults, so he heads off to the kitchen and settles himself with the luke warm soup, deciding to eat it there instead of the dining table. He's surprised to find just how hungry he was the moment his bowl is empty again, haven eating the last trace of food off of its surface—almost like there was no food to begin with. He shrugs to himself and goes for seconds, because why not? 

His parents don't say anything to him when he comes back from the kitchen and, quite frankly, he's grateful. Up the stairs and to his room, he forces himself to refrain from plopping on the bed—instead, drops his backpack wherever on the floor, taking his coat and hat off, plugging his phone to charge, and grabs his towel from the closet. He could use a nice hot shower to relax himself from his disastrous life, but mainly from today's earlier event. 

In the pit of his stomach, it just doesn't sit well with him. What he's hiding, what he's doing behind everyone's back—hell, what he's starting to _feel._  

Taking off his clothes in the closed bathroom and throwing them in the corner, he comes face to face with the mirror right above the sink, blue eyes staring back at him with determined intensity as if that way he could truly see who he was really looking back to. Failing to find the answer, his eyes begin to linger down his neck—he frowns. No doubt does he discover little red blemishes covering the pale skin of his neck. He can see his own Adam's apple bob when he swallows a lump that forms inside of his throat. He lifts his head at a slight angle, watching himself, watching the hickies stare back at him. 

"They don't mean anything, Stan." He tells himself. "This is all just for shits and giggles. Dumb asshole was too careless." 

Ripping his eyes away from his reflection, he hops into the shower and sighs when hot water hits his tense muscles—trailing down from there. He lets his eyes close and focuses on the sound of water splashing on the bathtub floor to drain out his overbearing thoughts. He makes the mistake of dropping his head and opening his eyes, looking down on his hips where he finds purple fingerprinted bruises there—evident as clear as day at what he had come home from. He scolds it. Ignores it, and goes about to clean himself, hoping that soap would be enough to erase the marks stained on his body. It wasn't. 

Finally getting into some plain white t-shirt and old red sport shorts, he lets his body fall on his already unmade bed. Sue him for not wanting to do his homework, most of it isn't due until the end of the week anyway. He can cram during first period to get what's due tomorrow done. 

 _Good job making excellent life choices_ , he tells himself. 

He clicks his tongue, reaching for his phone when he figures he'd rather waste time there than with his conscious. His phone lights up with the screen telling him the time: 9:45 P.M. He sees a message sent by Kyle underneath the clock—from when Stan had told him goodbye so he could properly work like a good employee. It's not like it was a bad job being a waiter, it just tended to drain his energy keeping a smile plastered on his face for the customers for five hours through thick and thin.  

He texts Kyle back: 

'Made it out alive, Christ I'm so tired dude' 

While he waits for his best friend's reply, he goes through typical Facebook—unimpressively swiping through the posts his friends have posted. A few snickers leave his mouth when he comes across dumb meme videos. 

Then his phone buzzes; 'No kidding. IB and AP has me tangled, I'm tired too and I'm not even working.' 

'You asked for it dude. Shoulda given yourself at least one class that doesn't choke u to death' 

'Gee thanks, Stan.' 

'Welcome :)' 

'I'm guessing you’re not touching your homework anytime soon?' 

'Fuck no. Not now anyway, I need sleep. I'm on the brink of passing out rn' 

'Well get your ass out of Facebook. I can see you active. Get some rest.' 

Stan huffs. 

'Fine, I'll see you tomorrow then' 

'Yeah, night dude.' 

'Night' 

He does as told and signs off. As an alternative to Facebook, he goes back to his messages. He knows he shouldn't be doing it, but he finds himself staring back at the text messages exchanged earlier on between him and Craig. 

'Are you free after work?' 

'Yes' 

'Meet me at the usual' 

'Ok, I'll head straight to you from work' 

And that was it. There's no sort of friendly small talk—everything consisted of short, bland words. Bland, just like their relationship. What they have going on between them is nothing more than what they both know they've wanted; relief. Relief from all the shit that life keeps throwing at then, relief from the constant stress of school, grades, relief from their work. 

Stan remembers how it all happened like it was yesterday. 

 

It was constant clashing with one another, a rivalry at first. Anyone who knew both of them would agree that Stan and Craig were not on friendly terms. They always happened to disagree with one another—snapping out insults and curses. They were kids who would rarely settle on putting aside their differences because they each believed that they were right and the other simply wasn’t. It continued that way for a very long time that it just seemed like tradition to them.  

It should have stayed that way, but there was an undeniable motion that had swept both of them together. 

Stan had been arguing with Craig and needless to say, Stan was already set on edge after having a fight with his parents because of his stupid grades the school sent out after the semester was over. He needed to walk off his steam—having no plans to actually stumble upon Craig. Seeing him only made Stan feel more infuriated. 

“The hells up with you?” Craig said after meeting his angry eyes.  

“Fuck off, Tucker. I don’t need you bothering me right now,” he snapped back.  

Stan bumped Craig’s shoulder when he stomped his way down the sidewalk and Craig—that fucker—shoved his shoulder back. “Fine by me. Wouldn’t dream of chatting it up with a girl on fucking her period.” 

And Stan couldn’t help it. He was livid and needed an outlet, so he turned on his heel.  

“Go die in a fucking ditch, Craig.” he barked. “You think you’re so much better—when in actuality; you’re nothing but a big fucking pile of dog shit.” 

“You wanna play that fucking game, huh?” Craig said stepping in front of Stan, squaring himself and—as much he knows Stan hates it—makes himself “intimidating” by using his height as a threat. 

 _Well news flash, Tucker. I know how to actually throw a punch._  

Before Craig could spill out the nasty words aimed at him, Stan used his already right clenched fist—threw it back, and slammed it directly on Craig’s nose. He was satisfied when he heard a crack somewhere in that punch.  

Craig forcibly shoved Stan back before reeling his hand to join the other one covering his newly broken nose. 

“Fuck!” He yelled. 

It had Stan grinning.  

It had adrenaline pumping in his veins and his heart racing—it wasn’t everyday Stan went around breaking noses—and to assholes who clearly deserved it. 

He knew the moment Craig laid eyes on him that this was going to be a brutal fight. There was fury in Craig’s eyes, and he knew his shit eating grin would just rile him up even more.  

 _Good_. 

Craig practically threw himself on Stan and brought them both down on the snow-covered grass. Bastard was quick to throw two punches on his left side of his face before Stan caught the next fist. Droplets of crimson blood fell from Craig’s broken nose and landed on Stan’s cheeks. He tightened his jaw and used all of the strength in him to roll them so that Stan was the one on top.  

They wrestled for pinning the other one down, throwing occasional punches left and right. 

Stan came out winning in the end when Craig finally caved in. He had accidentally let that pride get too far up his head and had a fist throwing him off of Craig just like that.  

Stan felt his vision swirl, lying down defeated on the snow, waiting for Craig to retaliate. It never came. 

Instead what he heard was the sound of them panting in the open. 

He turned his head to find Craig already staring back at him but it wasn’t with anger anymore. It was—he didn’t know what it was. He slowly sat up, without saying a word, without looking away. His heart was still beating hard against his chest, breaths unsteady, head forming a killer headache. He let himself blink for a moment. 

Then he saw it, the way Craig was looking at him; with hunger. 

To be fair, Stan wasn’t finished with him either. 

So—fuck it. 

Stan made his way to Craig just to have his coat get a tight fist held around the fabric and shoved. He lurched forward and got a fair greeting of Craig’s lips smashed on his. He groaned at the abrupt force but Craig made him forget it with the way he was aggressively kissing him—practically shoving his tongue down his fucking throat. 

It’s not like it wasn’t welcomed, Stan was all for it. Perhaps it was just what he needed. 

Their kisses were raw—teeth clanking, lip biting, tongue inducing kind of raw—kisses where they could feel just how much they hated one another.

There was nothing sweet about their kiss. 

But fuck—if Stan could’ve care less. 

He dug underneath Craig’s hat and tangled his finger between the other’s dark locks before pulling them, making Craig groan. At some point both of them bit the other roughly, breaking skin bringing in more blood than what was already there. 

They both flinched away when a loud honk blasted at them as a car passed through. 

“Asshole!” Craig called out, but the car was already well ahead.  

Stan was panting, steadying his shaky breaths now that there was no hot mouth to worry about devouring him. 

There was an awkward silence placed between them, one where Craig looked like he refused to look back at him. Stan took this chance to processes what he had just done and let his mouth run with what little IQ Craig forgot to snatch. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” he spoke with a ragged voice. 

At that, Craig turned—looking at him like they hadn’t just mouth fucked.  

“I know,” was all he said equally rough sounding.  

Craig stood up, grunting as he did. 

“Wipe your face, Marsh. You look like shit.” 

Stan smirked, “Fix your nose, Tucker. It looks a bit broken.” 

He received the usual middle finger at that but he remained silent. Stan didn’t say anything when he watched Craig leave. Didn’t say anything when he stood to go back home. Didn’t say anything when his parents pointed at his bruises with concern. He didn’t want to say anything. 

 

Stan sighs, hating himself for going down memory lane. He drops his phone down on the bed and walks to flick the light switch off. He digs himself underneath his covers and settles under their warmth and comfort.  

Funny how a fabric’s warmth can feel like it has more meaning than an actual person’s warmth. 

This all just started out as some form of need for something better in their lives—something worth their while. They both agreed on it. Stan agreed to it.  

No strings attached. 

Yet here he was, feeling like a dumbass for falling—barely hanging on by a loose thread. 

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Stan whispers to himself, closing his eyes before falling asleep.


End file.
